


In The Dark I Dream Of You

by LunaCanisLupus_22



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Non-Con, As in Derek is unaware that Stiles is sleepwalking, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mystery, Oblivious Stiles, One-Sided Relationship, Pining Derek, Plot Twists, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepwalking, Sort of Dark!fic, Unconventional Relationship, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCanisLupus_22/pseuds/LunaCanisLupus_22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like a problem, problem. </p><p>Stiles doesn’t know why it started happening. Why he of all people, Derek decided needed to be his cuddle buddy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark I Dream Of You

**Author's Note:**

> So this is sort of set after the end of season two, past the whole alpha pack shebang, with Jackson gone (and Erica and Boyd considerably not dead) and yeah,
> 
> that's about it.

# In The Dark I Dream Of You

#    


It’s not like a problem, problem. 

Werewolves are a problem. Stiles’ best friend being bitten by a werewolf and by werewolfy extension forced to join the fur gang during sophomore year- the mean girl version of werewolf pack dynamics between burnt-to-a-crisp back from the dead again creeper, Peter Hale and his even bigger asshole nephew, Derek- spawning years of psychological issues that will extend way past his college years, is a problem. 

It’s one _hell _of a problem.__

If they even survive that long. 

Scott barrels past him, wolfed out and terrified as he lets out an undignified yelp of horror. Stiles just glances over his shoulder at his best friend quickly disappearing into the woods and pauses, turns back to face the darkness alone and sighs.

A wonderfully fragrant scent fills his nostrils and Stiles inhales deeply as he dials Scott’s cell phone, listening distractedly for any sounds of impending doom.

Derek called them out tonight after his dad found a third body stripped of their genitalia and innards and other goody bits because apparently monsters feeding on sex organs is a thing now.

He knows the rest of the betas are running around somewhere along with Allison and Lydia, who’s become terrifyingly skilled with Argent weaponry as of late. It’s not like he’s all alone out in the middle of the woods with a murderous sex organ eater on the loose.

It's only after Scott doesn’t pick up and the delectable fragrance Stiles has been salivating over for several minutes turns suddenly foul like food that’s gone bad and left to rot out in the sun for weeks, that he actually start to freak out.

And by then, it’s clearly too late. 

His flashlight feels pretty flimsy as weapons go. His fingers can’t even grip it properly because he’s fear sweating and honestly what the hell is he doing in the freaking woods looking for a sex organ eater anyway?

Really, he needs better hobbies.

And then there’s this terrible sound echoing through the silence like a gunshot and Stiles is scrambling away, slipping on dried leaves in haste to get the hell out of dodge and away from the death sound currently emanating from his right.

The cry is piercing and sorrowful, twisted and disturbed but weirdly familiar. It's the sound of a woman in endless agony. Stiles kind of hates it, almost as much as his stupid ass best friend who thought it was a good idea to abandon the human with the very fresh, very untouched sex organs to the wilderness.

“On a platter, Scott!” Stiles yells, against his better judgement to the unknown universe. He can barely see a thing, even with the flashlight but he still feels the need to get his point across. “You served me up on a freaking _platter! ___

Scott doesn’t answer, because of course he’s a total bag of dicks and Stiles kicks at a rock in retaliation, enjoying the brief satisfaction when it goes skittering across the forest floor.

And that’s about when Stiles hears the cries again.

Only this time they’re softer.

Closer.

Oh fuck. He stops breathing, freezes and tries to keep his heart from beating too loudly as if that's something that's within his control and listens desperately for the sound again. His lungs strain from lack of air after holding it for so long and Stiles barely inhales, filling his lungs in attempt to drown in oxygen when he catches the flash of a white gown and it suddenly clicks into place.

“Pontianak!” he screams, as an eerily beautiful woman with long dark hair steps into his line of vision, loveliness stopping his breath short for a moment before the panic floods into his veins. 

“Oh man,” he cries, stumbling over his own feet as she slinks gracefully towards him, white gown dragging softly across the dried, broken leaves scattering the ground as her soft cries seize his heart within his chest.

Then he bails out of the clearing like a sex organ eater is on his heels which, Exhibit A- _Pontianak _, thank you, and nearly falls flat on his face.__

“I’m not easily seducible!” he yells over his shoulder, stumbling away and trying very hard not to look at her face which might just put Lydia to shame, beauty wise. “I’m barely even a man!”

He picks up the pace, flashlight flicking all over the forest like some kind of wicked strobe lighting at a dance party as he runs, utterly blind and regretting ever thinking werewolves were awesome. 

“I am not pregnant either!” he cries when it seems like the shrieking Pontianak is getting closer. And hungrier. “Seriously. You do not want to eat this!”

He can still smell the rotting food and gags on the scent, resisting the urge to retch but it's stimulatingly disgusting and clears his head. Enough so that when he hears her shrieking cries dangerously close to his left again, he dives right off of an embankment without hesitation instead of falling directly into her beautiful arms, clawed fingernails curved out to slash his insides.

Stiles immediately regrets the split second decision when he goes flying down the steep incline, smacking every remotely sensitive body part into the hard and unyielding surface of fallen tree roots, rotting logs and basically every rock formation in Beacon Hills. 

Diving off of anything is a pretty bad idea to begin with and when he finally collapses into an ungainly heap at the bottom, covered in unnameable aches, bruises and cuts he really sees the light on not doing that _ever _again. So help him God, Amen.__

The Pontianak lets out a frustrated shriek, cheated of Stiles’ appetising sex organs because even though nobody else in Beacon Hills seems willing to touch his junk, Stiles knows it's totally mouth watering. He wrenches his aching body off the floor and limps away as quickly as possible, which means pretty much snail pace from here on out.

He barely gets two metres before a clawed hand is yanking him into the air.

“Oh fuck, fuck!” he screams. “Not like this, Oh Jesus fuck!...”

“Stiles!” Derek barks, nearly smothering him with his other hand in an effort to quiet the sound. “Shut _up. _”__

Derek drops him without another word and Stiles tries not to wince while his heart restarts all over again. He lost his flashlight in the embankment but picking up an alpha werewolf instead has to be an even trade. If anything, it might be better.

At least now he’s less likely to die.

It works out pretty well after that. The rest of the betas turn up, except Scott who Stiles hopes at least got some sex organs nibbled on before he escaped and then Derek destroys the Pontianak. 

Spoiler alert: it’s actually nastier than the rotting garbage smell.

And then Derek leads them out of the Reserve, nobody offers to help carry Stiles who is limping pretty heavily now because they’re still elitist werewolf assholes who don’t understand humans can still get their asses kicked by diving head first into embankments.

They find Scott in his jeep and he very nearly kicks him out and makes him walk back but when he sees how shit scared he is, Stiles decides to be satisfied with the nightmares Scott will have tonight and shuffles around to the driver’s door. Lydia and Allison have already gone to get pizza.

And then it’s just back to his not-problem problem.

Because Derek is pulling him into his arms before Stiles can realise what’s happening and a steady hum is enough to let him know that his pain is being sucked out like a vacuum, courtesy of Derek’s wonder hands as the heat rises to his face.

“Dude,” he mutters, pushing Derek away with a huff of embarrassment before the length of exposed contact gets a very happy, teenage boy reaction from him, glancing at Boyd, Isaac and Erica who watch the exchange impassively.

Scott doesn’t even acknowledge what Derek’s doing and Stiles quickly climbs into the jeep without looking at him, face flushed.

Derek reaches through the open window and curls a hand around his bicep and Stiles nearly loses his shit all over again. Jesus, why the hell does he keep doing that?

“Stiles…” he starts a little hesitantly and Stiles does not need anymore weirdness tonight because he’s fresh out of the shit he’s usually got to cope with it.

“Go team werewolf,” he says a little too enthusiastically. “This has been fun. Definitely call us next time a Pontianak is eating genitalia.”

And he slams his keys into the ignition, jeep roaring to life and pulls out of Beacon Hills Reserve parking lot before Derek gets all touchy feely again.

  
  
  


 

Stiles doesn’t know why it started happening. Why he of all people, Derek decided needed to be his cuddle buddy.

But he does know when.

It started two months ago, just after Jackson became a werewolf and then decided to move to the other side of the country, abandoning Lydia like the asshole he is, and will always be. And when Stiles also coincidentally realised how much he'd outgrown the painful crush that he’d had on Lydia for so many years. That’s about when it started.

Just around the same time Stiles realises he's hot in the crotch for Derek and starts to dream about him. In a very naked, clothes optional way. 

It starts out as casual touches, gripping Stiles’ elbow to steer him away from a bear trap when they were chasing down the Alpha pack, tapping his shoulder to warn of his approaching father in the blood and gore cleanup aftermath of the Chupacabra incident. It super embarrassing, because Stiles' brain is pretty interested in naked Derek and the casual stuff gets his heart pumping a mile a minute.

But that stuff seemed normal. Regular Alpha protector behaviour. He hadn't figured out he's Stiles' newest wet dream fantasy of the month. Or the year.

But it didn’t stop there.

There was sniffing, and neck touching. Like Stiles had to start wearing scarfs. In summer. Scratchy, ugly scarves that would irritate Derek’s touchy feely hands as well as eyes.

It worked. He didn’t get too touchy. But the only problem with that was that Stiles was irritated by the scarves as well. 

And now it’s come down to the hugging. And taking Stiles pain away and generally making it difficult to pretend that even touching a scarf doesn’t give him a raging hard on anymore.

Derek’s an ass. And sure Stiles can live with that, he barely sees Derek anyway it’s not like he has to deal with him outside of their monster fighting werewolf task force. He hasn’t even been to his new loft yet- a nice step up from the freaky abandoned train depot he lurked in for the last few months.

So sure, Derek’s an ass but what Stiles really wants to know is why the hell Derek's giving him these mixed messages.

It’s not fair, especially on his poor uncontrollable teenage hormones. Stiles’ dick is literally starting to chafe from constantly jerking it to sustain him in light of the not-problem problem.

He doesn’t understand. Really doesn’t. Derek is such an asshole for targeting him because Stiles knows for a fact that he doesn’t touch anybody else. It's unfair that Derek is testing his limits like this. Giving him hope as if he might somehow feel the same way. If Stiles wasn't confident Derek isn't a total jerkface, he'd think he was messing with him. But Derek's not a total jerkface. 

At least, not enough to do that.

  
  
  


 

He gets home before his father finishes his shift so there's enough time to shower and a least cover up half of the bruises and shallow cuts mapping his body like he’s been hit by a truck. He doesn't hurt, though. Not like earlier. So win for team recovery.

Stiles emerges half an hour later, damp hair and trackpants hanging loosely off his hips when he goes into the kitchen to make a cheese toastie. He barely climbs the staircase and walks into his bedroom, mouth half full of a generous bite of scalding hot cheese when he nearly chokes to death on the mouthful, spotting Derek Hale perched on his windowsill.

“What,” he gasps, doubling over to swallow the lump of food in his throat. Derek just sits there and watches him slowly asphyxiate. Asshole.

By the time he’s figured out how to breathe again, Derek is already talking.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, but Derek phrases it more like a demand, face twisting into a scowl as if the very question offends him, not the fact that Stiles was literally just choking several seconds ago.

“Besides passively watch me choke to death?” Stiles demands, wheezing a little as he grabs a nearby bottle he’d left at his computer desk yesterday, screwing the cap off and taking a generous gulp. He has to swallow a few times before he stops sounding like he decided to eat a frog. Raw.

And that’s when he notices that Derek is staring at his bare chest, lips pursed and eyebrows pushed together into a frown like the Stiles shirtless experience is an event he could stand to miss. Stiles nearly spills water all over his carpet when he scrambles to grab something to throw over his shoulders, tugging a shirt over his chest.

Derek’s expression worsens somehow at that and Stiles has to resist the urge to walk over and push him out of the window. He’d have less problems, that’s for sure.

“Is there something we need to talk about?” Derek asks and the way he frames the words like he’d give anything in the world not to hear about Stiles and the permanent stiffy he carries around in honour of Derek’s face and abs and general everything.

And if that isn’t code for _please for the love of God keep your boner under control _Stiles doesn’t know what is. Derek must know about the sexy dreams that he can't seem to stop having about him. He grits his teeth, pulling distractedly at the corner of his shirt and winces when he pokes a sensitive bruise at his hip. Half of these he doesn’t remember getting anymore.__

When he looks up, Derek has this expectant look on his face like he’s just waiting for Stiles to admit that he’s into him so Derek can finally remove him from the monster fighting werewolf task force once and for all. Or reject him so thoroughly that Stiles' balls retreat into his body never to be seen again. 

And Stiles just kind of loses it.

“Sure,” he snaps and Derek actually adjusts his grip onto the window sill in surprise at Stiles’ reaction the force of his words might actually push him off. “Let’s talk about the personal space invasion you’ve had going on all month. I gotta admit man, I just about love it when you’re all over me like some kind of werewolf rash.”

For a brief second there’s this wild flicker of hurt that crosses Derek’s face, but Stiles is on such a roll finally standing up for himself that he thinks he imagines it. It's Derek's fault anyway for leading him on like that. He should know what he's doing to Stiles' dick.

“You want space,” Derek says, eventually, voice hard and he’s already looking away, refusing to meet Stiles’ eyes even though he’s been mauling him for the past month. Stiles is really the victim here. Derek keeps trying to force him into situation to expose his attraction to the grumpy werewolf. Probably so he and his betas can laugh at him.

“Okay,” he mutters, clearing his throat before quickly moving to climb out of Stiles’ room like the Sheriff is personally chasing him down with a shotgun.

“Great!” Stiles huffs, stomping over to tug the window down with a loud snap. He stares at Derek’s retreating form in his front yard until he disappears from view. Stiles blinks a couple times, wonders what the hell is wrong with Derek and decides to lock the window in case he comes back to kill him during the night.

Just to be safe.

He climbs into bed, regrets Derek’s existence for a few minutes just to feel better before collapsing onto his pillow and ignoring the throbbing pain throughout his entire body.

He’s too exhausted to do much else after that. So he sleeps.

  
  
  


 

When he finally cracks an eye open at ass o’clock in the morning, it’s to the morning chill filtering through an open window and a slightly less aching-upon-any-movement body. He feels content like maybe he had a good orgasm after the dream he had last night, but he's not covered in any left over spunk. He must've cleaned up and then fallen back to sleep or something. 

It must be the rest. Sleeping off injuries and such.

He slips back into sleep a minute later.

But not before shutting the window again. 

  
  
  


 

The not-problem problem becomes more of a what-problem problem.

Stiles doesn’t see Derek for a couple weeks. Even when a Bakhtak, a little goblin creature, starts wreaking havoc all over Beacon Hills by inducing terrifying nightmares, suffocating and paralysing people by sitting on their chests whilst asleep and Derek still doesn’t feel like making an appearance.

Apparently, that’s what space means.

Thankfully, after he researches enough information to do some damage, Lydia and Isaac finally destroy it, while Stiles once again gets a chance to reprise his role as live bait. He has the final stages of bruises spattering his ribs where the Bakhtak tried to crush him in his sleep by the time he sees Derek again.

He has a few restless nights because of the Bakhtak and maybe he hasn’t been sleeping well for a couple months now anyway so the possibility of Derek actually being a sleep induced hallucination is highly probable. Although, he doubts his imagination is good enough to mimic Derek’s scowl when he comes to wake up the rest of his betas- whose nearly crushed chests are already healing.

Werewolf assholes.

It takes a comfy bed and definite Bakhtak destruction confirmation for Stiles to be able to actually close his eyes and sleep soundly, only slightly wheezing from the suffocation experience.

And that’s when it becomes a what-problem problem.

  
  
  


 

Because Stiles wakes up in a bed. He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. In an unfamiliar room. He yawns, tiredly takes in his surroundings before he realises that he does not recognise a single thing that he’s looking at.

Weird. 

He sits up almost instantly, head swimming as the blood rushes to his brain and tries to think of an explanation. He comes up with nothing because Stiles has no idea where he is or how in the hell he got there and he throws back the covers experimentally, steeling himself for some major trauma.

He’s not naked.

Thank God. 

But he’s shirtless. In a stranger’s bed. In a strange place. After yet another Derek themed dream.

And what the actual fuck is going on? 

He dives out of the bed, which is in fact actually surprisingly comfy. Whoever decided to kidnap him clearly made good choices, mattress wise. He listens for the sound of knives sharping in the preparation for stripping flesh or general evil sounding cackling and when neither make themselves known, he steals a shirt from an open drawer and darts out of the room.

The apartment is empty and no creatures have come out to munch on his sex organs but it’s enough of a freak show for one day and Stiles quickly locates his possessions all over the eerily empty place as he tries not to panic.

Stiles still thinks something happened even if he woke up in clothes and for a second he’s distracted by the pure suckage of the possibility of losing his virginity and then not even remembering it before he’s locating his phone, wallet and keys and hurriedly letting himself out the front door.

He gets all the way down to the end of the street before he finally gets his bearings back and figures out where the hell he is.

It’s still Beacon Hills and thankfully not Vegas, although that sounds much more appealing right now and Stiles tries to keep his head down as he makes his way back home in case the person who’s house he broke into/ was kidnapped and left to die in doesn’t walk past and recognise him.

There doesn’t really seem like there’s an ulterior motive for Stiles crashing at some person's place and he’s still in possession of all ten fingers and ten toes so he thinks it could have gone a lot worse. He got a sexy dream out of it at least. 

And by the time Stiles gets back to his own bed, climbs in and settles back down again into the perfect wonderment of not waking up in a murder house, he’s already happily repressed the entire thing.

  
  
  


 

Erica apparently has something to say to him when she slams him up against his locker the next day. For a brief moment, he has a flash of horror wondering if it was her bed he woke up in yesterday but then he remembers that he’s not meant to be thinking of that because a) waking up in random beds when falling asleep in your own is weird and b) from what he saw of said random bed he was definitely under the impression that it belonged to a male.

Not an angry werewolf female.

“Ow, ow,” he snaps when she purposely digs her claws in, not enough to break the skin but enough for a decent hello. “You rang?”

“It’s been weeks,” she growls, low and dangerous in his ear, shaking him a little like he’s a chew toy. “How much goddamn space do you want? Either dump Derek’s sorry ass or make up already. This is just ridiculous.”

Stiles gasps, feels the world tilt just that little bit off of its axis and manages to free himself from her grip. “Dump? Derek and I aren’t even dating!”

Erica laughs and shoves his back into the locker this time so he gets the full few of her fangs, poking out over her glossy lips. “Yeah, right. I can smell him all over you, you know.”

Stiles is both equal parts impressed and offended by this. She leans in closer, expression predatory.

“And I saw you last night.”

He has so many questions but Erica is already walking away by that point.

  
  
  


 

“Erica thinks Derek and I are dating,” Stiles announces when he finds the rest of the monster fighting werewolf task force in the cafeteria and takes a seat at the table.

Allison spits the water she’s drinking, but only because she bursts out into laughter. Lydia smirks at his expression while Isaac frowns and Boyd scowls. Scott looks genuinely puzzled.

“But Stiles, you are dating Derek,” Scott says, confusion creeping in as Stiles’ jaw drops in astonishment. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he splutters. “That’s a world of no.”

“Because you told Derek you wanted space,” Isaac mutters and suddenly Stiles understands why he’s been getting cold shoulders and grumpy looks from the werewolves of the monster fighting werewolf task force and gee, way to pick sides guys.

On the non-existent relationship fight.

“I meant _personal _space,” Stiles tells them. “As in I need some room to back dat ass up because he was all over me.”__

“Because you’re dating,” Erica points out, rolling her eyes as she joins them.

“Am not,” Stiles retorts stubbornly. “How the hell did everybody know about this except me? Don’t you think it’s weird I never talked about dating Derek?”

Lydia shrugs. “Maybe you’re just shy.”

He nearly snaps the fork he’s holding in half. “Or maybe we’re not dating!”

“You smell like you’re dating,” Boyd points out helpfully and Scott nods his head in agreement.

“That’s just from all the times I’ve had to save his werewolf ass and vice versa.”

Scott scoots closer, lowers his voice a little, although it’s pointless around a group of werewolves. “No, Stiles,” he whispers. “You smell like sex. And Derek.”

Stiles flushes hotly and shoves Scott away from him. “Maybe I just like to jerk off a lot.” Erica swats him over the back of the head.

“You idiot. He’s saying you smell like sex. As in you and Derek. Sex. Together.”

What.

Stiles is already out of his seat before he realises that he’s moved. No. He's been having dreams. That's it. He and Derek have literally never bumped uglies.

“You should talk to Derek,” Allison advises seriously despite the water spitting incident a few seconds ago. “You two need to sort this out.”

“You mean the part where we’ve been apparently having sex I don’t remember?”

This is just. What the hell does this even mean exactly? 

Stiles doesn’t wait to find out. He goes straight to his locker, grabs his backpack and heads outside, making a beeline for his jeep. It's Friday, he has no tests ahead of him or any particularly important classes he can't afford to miss. 

Besides, Derek has some goddamn explaining to do.

  
  
  


 

He calls Derek's cell phone just as he drives out of the school parking lot.

“What,” he answers in his usual friendly greeting.

“Where are you?” is what Stiles wants to ask, but instead he blurts out, “Why do you think we’re dating?”

Derek actually grunts out a sound like Stiles somehow just punched him in the gut. “I guess that’s your answer then,” he mutters and Stiles knows he’s going to hang up now.

“Wait!” he says hurriedly. “Listen, I…” he pauses, licks his lips. “I need to see you right now. Where are you?”

“The loft,” Derek bites out and he sounds pissed but Stiles is not taking any shit for a fake breakup, he sure as hell isn’t. “I’ll see you in five.”

And then he hangs up without telling Stiles how to get there.

Asshole.

  
  
  


 

Stiles figures it out anyway because he’s a genius and it just so happens to be the freaky murder house he woke up in yesterday.

So Derek’s the one who kidnapped him, then.

Well, that’s comforting.

He parks across the road and walks up, going by memory until he’s standing out the front of Derek’s door. He takes a deep breath and knocks before he can chicken out.

Derek opens it almost instantly, practically tugging Stiles across the threshold before he can get a word in. He drags Stiles straight to the bedroom which immediately gets his interest because after all, they’re fake dating but it’s only so Derek can shove him, placing warm hands on his shoulders until Stiles is sitting down on the very comfortable- not a murder house- mattress.

It’s bad though, because his face is pretty much level with Derek’s crotch and this is not how to keep Stiles’ attention, nay it is not.

“I-…” Stiles tries to begin, but Derek is already silencing him with a look.

“I don’t know what you want from us,” he says and holy fucking Christ, it’s true. Derek actually thinks they’re _together _. Fuck. “But I can’t do this hot and cold thing anymore. One moment you’re all over me and everything’s perfect and the next thing I know you’re looking at me like I’m crazy and taking advantage of you. I don’t want to play games.”__

“I’m not playing any…” Stiles begins, but then Derek is swooping in and catching his mouth in a heated kiss.

Stiles groans because Derek’s _mouth _. And oh God, why the hell does he even care if they’re dating and he doesn’t remember it? He’s dating Derek Hale. It totally counts.__

Only Derek is suddenly pushing him back onto the bed and climbing onto him, rubbing their cocks together through their jeans as he makes a filthy mess of Stiles’ mouth, fingers sliding up underneath his shirt, playfully tweaking at Stiles’ nipple as he tugs the shirt upwards and Stiles can't breathe.

He groans wetly, raises his hips in little abortive thrusts when Derek pulls away to rip his shirt entirely off of his back. His lips are almost numb, kiss swollen and he feels thoroughly debauched and then Derek’s laying on top of him and pressing their hips together.

And it's pretty much exactly like what Stiles has been dreaming. He throws his head back whilst he thrusts up with a heady gasp at the friction and keeps gasping. And suddenly there’s not enough air in the room.

“Derek, Derek,” he moans. “Wait. Stop.”

To his credit. Derek does. Stops immediately and pulls back, eyes drawn like he’s resolved himself to Stiles’ endless recurring cycle of rejection.

“Wait, wait,” he gasps, pulling Derek back onto his chest and wrapping his arms around his neck so he can hold him there when Derek goes to leave. For a second, he swears Derek is listening to his heartbeat.

“Okay, now I’ve got some stuff to say,” he admits, licking his lips and wondering how best to go about explaining this. It’s much easier when he can’t see Derek’s face. 

“Everybody thinks we’re dating, even you,” he says hating how he feels Derek stiffen against him. “Calm down dude, I’m not messing with you here. It’s just, um, I don’t recall us actually ever going on a date. And as far as I’m aware that was our first makeout.”

Derek stiffens and this time when he goes to sit up, Stiles lets him though he regrets giving up all of that warmth.

“Stiles until you asked for space you’ve been here nearly every night,” he says, frowning in confusion and when he reaches out for Stiles’ hand. Stiles lets him take it, although he is concerned that Derek is losing his sanity.

“You really don’t remember?” Derek asks and there’s an edge of horror to his voice as if all of this has finally dawned on him. 

“Have we had sex?” Stiles asks bluntly unable to look at him. Derek’s fingers tighten around his own before he exhales a shaky breath.

“No, we haven’t,” he says quietly. “Not that.”

“But other stuff, right?” Stiles guesses feeling a little hollow at the thought of all he’s missed out on. With Derek. Because for some reason he doesn’t remember. Does that mean it was really even him then?

Derek’s expression turns fierce as if he knows what Stiles is thinking. “Just kissing and a few orgasms. But we kept out clothes on." 

So just a bit of dry humping that Stiles doesn't remember. That's comforting. 

"It was you," Derek insists. "I _know _it was you. Only you could be that annoying.”__

Stiles huffs out a laugh, then frowns. “Maybe a shapeshifter...?”

Derek growls and crowds Stiles back against the pillows. “It was you Stiles. All those marks I made on your skin were still there the next day.”

Stiles suddenly remembers the phantom marks on his neck that he’d just mistaken as bruises leftover from mythical creature battles. The other, more intimate bruises, those on his hip bones and his mouth, swollen from kissing.

From kissing Derek. Which he doesn’t remember. What the fuck?

“I don’t understand,” he says, finally trying not to panic. “Have I been possessed or something? Why do you remember but I don’t?”

Derek seems almost as distressed by the thought as he is. “No. You can’t be possessed,” he says, finally, desperately. “You’d smell different.”

Stiles thinks for a moment. “You didn’t um, do any of this to me when I was asleep or anything did you?”

It would make sense. After all Stiles has been dreaming about it. Derek’s lip curls and Stiles knows he’s crossed a line. It’s a honest question though, Jesus.

“No, I didn’t,” he snaps, releasing Stiles’ hand like it’s a grenade. “And you never once slept here, no matter how many times I begged you to.”

Something nudges at Stiles brain after Derek speaks and he sits there silently for a moment, thinking. He knows the answer, how it will all make sense and it’s just sitting there at the edge of his consciousness, patiently waiting for him to catch up.

Suddenly it clicks and Stiles looks up to Derek, pacing across the room, genuinely distressed which is kind of is the hottest thing Stiles has ever seen because he made him that way. Because Derek is into him. And he's totally whipped which is awesome.

“Derek,” he says slowly, cautiously. “What if I was already asleep?”

Derek blinks and scowls at him. “What?”

But Stiles is already scrambling for his phone. “There’s this thing I used to do when I was little, after my mother died,” he explains. “It’s like sleepwalking but your eyes are open and you act like you’re awake.”

He lets Derek process that golden nugget of information whilst he dials. His father, Sheriff of course picks up on the first ring.

“What’s going on, Stiles?” his father demands. “I got a call from the school saying…”

“Sorry, Dad,” he hurries. “It’s an emergency. I need to know. Have I been sleepwalking lately?”

“For the last two months. Ever since the Whittemore’s left Beacon Hills. I didn’t want to worry you. But you’ve been perfectly safe, I’ve been hiding your car keys and locking the door every night. Just in case.”

Oh shit. But not the _window._

Where Stiles must’ve climbed out and then walked all the way to Derek’s apartment so he could fool around with him. In his sleep. Damn. Talk about making dreams a reality. Stiles can see Derek tilting his head and knows he can hear everything they’re saying.

“Thanks, Dad. It’s okay, I’m fine. I just had to sort some stuff out.”

His father warns him not to ditch school again before he hangs up. Stiles smiles, proud that at least he’s not losing his mind. Not yet at least, before he glances up at Derek.

And catches his expression.

“Oh no,” Stiles warns. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You were asleep Stiles,” Derek groans. “And I…”

“We, Derek,” he corrects. “Even asleep I know I’m more than a willing participant. Why do you think out of everybody in this freaking town I climbed out of my window and came to you? I've been dreaming about you for months. I just thought you were trying to let me down easy.”

"I think you should go," Derek admits. "I need to process this. We both do." 

Stiles tries not to show how much that hurts, but Derek's probably right. It still feels like Stiles finally got something he's always wanted before having it violently snatched away, though. 

When he gets up to leave, Derek can't quite look at him. 

"I'm sorry, Stiles," he says. 

"Can I come by tomorrow?" he asks, trying to keep his voice light and careless. 

Derek still won't look at him, but his shoulders are tense. "If you want." 

Stiles knows what that means. Derek's thinking Stiles won't ever want to talk to him again after this. That he's fucked up that badly. Stiles feels a little overwhelmed right now, but he still thinks Derek might be wrong about that.  
  
  
  


He locks his window with a key that night, making sure to suggest that his father check in on him at some point just to make sure he's still there after telling him he's been climbing out the window every night. The Sheriff immediately makes an appointment with a sleep specialist after that and promises to check in on him once he's finished hiding Stiles' keys again. 

Stiles still dreams of Derek that night. But for once when he wakes up again the next day, he knows he hasn't gone anywhere. 

He ends up missing Derek anyway.  
  
  
  


He drives over to Derek's as soon as as he's showered and eaten some food. He doesn't eat too much because he's too nervous to stomach it and he's full of nervous energy when he parks the jeep outside Derek's loft and heads on up. 

Derek's waiting for him as soon as he arrives. 

"Hey," he says awkwardly. "Are you okay?" 

"Not really," he admits. "Are you?" 

"I'm good. I didn't come here last night?" 

"No," Derek insists, sharply. "You didn't." 

Stiles nods, confirming what he'd already known. "I dreamt about you again." 

Derek looks shocked. "You still-?" 

"Yeah," he agrees, moving towards Derek, reining him in by the hips when he tries to pull away.

“It would have happened anyway,” Stiles encourages. “You would never have been able to resist me for long.”

Derek actually laughs at that, carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair and he has a flicker of jealousy for his sleepwalking self that got to experience this side of Derek for months first hand without even remembering a damn thing about it. The dreams have kind of blurred together now but he feels like there might be snippets floating around in his brain.

He sure as hell is going to fix that now. Stiles pushes forward and kisses Derek on the mouth, determined to make some memories of his own. Derek resists all of two seconds until Stiles presses closer, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss and he lets himself be tugged forward until he and Derek end up on the bed. 

Their shirts go first and Stiles wastes no time reaching forward to unbutton Derek's jeans and work his hand inside while Derek tilts his hips up to allow him access. Derek groans into Stiles mouth when he gets his hand around him and pulls his cock free. 

It’s flushed at the tip and Stiles doesn’t even think about not covering it with his mouth, enveloping the heat and the bitter taste of precum as he sucks Derek down, hollowing out his cheeks to take more. He's never done this before, but to his surprise it's something he enjoys immensely especially with the noises Derek makes.

He groans softly, tries to pull back and away but Stiles chases after him, keeping Derek in his mouth drawing back to tongue his slit before sucking him past his lips again. He gets into a rhythm, sucking gently as he reaches to cup Derek’s balls, listening to the sounds Derek makes as he works him up.

He hums in the back of his throat and feels the soft pressure of Derek’s fingers against his scalp. Stiles glances up to watch Derek’s expression and their eyes barely meet before Derek is cursing and exploding into his mouth.

Stiles takes it all, swallowing and then releasing Derek’s sensitive cock, letting Derek tug him up the mattress and quickly get him naked. He’s not nervous because it's Derek and he trusts him implicitly and it barely takes fifteen minutes of fingering Stiles open until he’s this flushed, incoherent mess against the bed sheets.

It’s new and amazing and strange and there’s so much for Stiles to take in. But by then Derek is full and hard against the warmth of Stiles’ thigh and Derek’s already sliding down to suck hickeys into his flesh, dangerously close to his cock.

“C’mon, Derek,” he gasps and then Derek is slicking himself up, even lets Stiles help get a hand around him, grunting when Stiles really grips his cock, pumping him a few times until Derek is forced to push him down, slowly removing his fingers from inside his body.

"Are you sure?" Derek asks, quietly. 

Stiles sighs with the loss but he's nodding furiously and Derek more than makes up for it when he slowly guides himself inside, tilting Stiles’ hips to get the perfect angle before encouraging him to wrap his legs around Derek’s back.

Stiles does, digs his heels into Derek’s thighs, adjusting around the fullness of his cock, overwhelmed by the searing heat of it as Derek slowly bottoms out. It hurts. He's obviously never done this, but he breathes through it and let himself adjust. He tries to relax and groans when Derek tugs at his cock between their bodies before he pulls out and pivots his hips, thrusting back in.

He hits Stiles’ prostate on the first thrust and Stiles nearly loses it right there, so blissed out it takes several seconds for him to realise Derek’s stopped completely. He opens his mouth to protest vocally on his own behalf when he catches Derek staring down at him with this curious expression on his face.

“You sure you're not asleep?” he asks and Stiles pushes up to punch him, only that slides Derek further into his body and they’re both gasping and laughing before they soon forget why.

Derek is like a machine, and they’re both equal push and pull, equal fervour that rouses a burning need within them both as they lay together, intertwined across the sheets. Stiles can’t stop pulling Derek closer like he wants more of him than possible and Derek wants the same, jerking his hips and yanking Stiles almost into his lap to adjust the angle of his thrusts so each time he slams in deeper. 

The steady slaps of skin against skin is too much and Stiles can’t last when he can feel Derek moving inside of him and before long the orgasm is wrenched out of his body, panting hard into Derek’s open mouth as they kiss lazily through the aftermath.

  
  
  


 

It isn’t until after the second round when Stiles lies there using Derek’s chest as a pillow as they both try to catch their breath that Stiles really begins to appreciate not being a virgin anymore. He has no regrets whatsoever.

“Okay,” he says eventually, mouthing tiredly at Derek’s throat. “We’re dating.”

Derek grins and pulls Stiles forward by the nape of his neck, mouth angled to capture his own. 

“Good,” he replies, once they pull apart again to breathe.

So it’s not really a problem, problem after all.

  
  
  



End file.
